


take me out and take me home

by moogle62



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: M/M, Mile High Club, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-02 12:44:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20750843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: “Like that time in Chicago?” There were so many times in Chicago.





	take me out and take me home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gdgdbaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gdgdbaby/gifts).

> Remix of [may i touch, said he](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14231661) by gdgdbaby
> 
> I've been noodling around with this idea for a while, so thank you to gdgdbaby for providing the perfect opportunity to actually un-noodle it <3

Take-off is rough, a storm brewing maybe a couple of hours out, and even when the flight levels out Jon’s mouth is still set in a grim line, his hands clenched on the armrests. His meds haven’t kicked in yet so Tommy’s got him tucked under a blanket, one of the soft ones from their couch, to help him feel more weighed down.

“Breathe,” Tommy reminds him, and Jon exhales shakily, not relaxing an inch. 

The cabin lights are low -- red-eyes aren’t Tommy’s favourite, but there wasn’t much to be done about it, timing-wise -- and the flight isn’t too full for once, so there’s no one to see when Tommy gets his hand under the blanket, squeezes Jon’s thigh. They’re alone in a row near the back of the plane, Tommy a helpful barrier between Jon and the window, and Jon turns his face towards Tommy, taking another deliberate breath.

“Sorry,” Jon mumbles. “Sorry, it’s -- I’ll be fine in a minute.”

It’ll be more than a minute, and both of them know it. They also both know that Tommy doesn’t mind at all. He’s been there for years of flights, the good ones and the terrible ones and the one where Jon hyperventilated somewhere over the Pacific, and he’ll be there for years more. It’s not a burden. It’s not a problem. It’s Jon.

If they had the dogs with them, that’d probably help, but Leo and Lucca are back in LA, living it up in doggy daycare for a couple of days. Jon could listen to music until the benzos start working, but he’s tense-mouthed and fidgeting and Tommy doesn’t know if that’s going to cut it.

But maybe --

It’s easy, really, to slip his hand further until his fingers are brushing the plane seat, until Jon’s strong inner thigh is there under his palm. It’s easier still to slide his hand up, up, gauging Jon’s response, until -- 

“Tommy,” Jon says, quiet and wide-eyed, but doesn’t stop him, doesn’t do anything but part his legs infinitesimally further, inviting. Tommy makes himself keep his expression neutral, makes himself look like he isn’t cupping Jon’s dick through his sweats, right there in the plane cabin where anyone could walk by. He pushes down, experimentally, and Jon’s breath catches. “You --”

“Maybe you should try to get some sleep,” Tommy suggests, conversationally, flexing his hand again. Jon parts his lips, mouth red. Tommy wishes he could kiss him, but there’ll be time -- and a hotel room -- later. “Like that time in Chicago?” There were so many times in Chicago. He goes on. “You were so wiped you couldn’t make it home without me holding you up on the L.”

He can see the moment Jon gets it, realisation washing over his face. More than that, he can feel Jon’s dick jump under his palm, hardening up, just as eager as they were in their twenties, working all hours of the day and still not out of energy for each other, crammed in Tommy’s single bed. 

It’s a vivid memory, standing out in the haze of tiredness and exhilaration of the campaign: winter outside and Jon in Tommy’s arms up against the wall of the subway car, biting down on Tommy’s palm as he came hot and messily against his thigh. Jon had had to throw those pants out, Tommy remembers. There’d been no saving that stain. 

Jon’s wearing dark sweats today. They’ll hide most of the damage, at least until Jon can clean himself up.

Tommy presses his hand down again, just a touch more pressure. He can’t do much more, not here, not without essentially hanging a neon sign over their seats saying _I’m getting Jon Favreau off on this plane_, but to a quick glance, there’s nothing out of the ordinary to what they’re doing. Jon, draped in a blanket; Tommy turned towards him, attentive and sweet. They could be holding hands under this blanket, nothing more.

Jon’s eyes flutter closed. “Yeah,” he says, hoarsely. “Like Chicago. Good idea.” 

It’s almost tempting to draw this out. It almost feels like they’re the only two people in the world right now, in that strange surreal way of most travel. The person across the aisle from them already has a sleep-mask on, and the row behind is empty. The dim sound of the engines is a quiet rush all around them, white noise, and Jon’s dick is so hot under Tommy’s hand even through the layers of fabric. Taking too long wouldn’t be smart though, even beyond the general risk of getting off somewhere semi-public like this. Jon’s sensitive in bed, reactive like he’s never had to learn not to be in dorms or shared rooms or at home with thin walls, and the longer Tommy takes, the less able Jon will be to hide what they’re doing.

As he thinks it, Jon’s hips jerk, just slightly. “Sorry,” Jon says, under his breath. “I -- it’s not gonna take much.”

It never does, when they do this. Jon just needs a firm touch and encouragement; a frisson of tension and he’s there. There've been a handful of times since Chicago -- never in DC but twice in California, a couple of times more since Crooked, on tour -- and Jon is so easy for it every time, hot and eager for the risk, the thought that anyone might see what he wants Tommy to do to him. Lovett has groused, good-naturedly, that they've got their own house now, but still, those moments: they don't pass them up. They're not stupid about it, especially now more and more people seem to recognise their faces, but they _are_ about it, on occasion.

Tommy keeps his hand pressed down firmly, curls his fingers, gives Jon the hot, blunt pressure he needs. It really isn't going to take long at all, Tommy can tell: even through the fear of being in the sky, Jon's body is reacting. Jon grabs for Tommy's visible hand, holds on tight. "I," he whispers, strained, and cuts himself off, his head bowed so only Tommy can see him, the flush across his cheekbones, the need written across his face however much he's trying to hide it.

“That’s it,” Tommy murmurs, as Jon’s breathing picks up, quick and desperate, staccato through his nose. “I’ll take care of you,” and that’s it, he knows it is, can feel Jon’s whole body tense up and his dick pulse under the tight press of Tommy’s hand, can feel Jon’s thighs tremble with the effort of staying still, can see Jon bite down hard on his lip, eyes squeezed closed. 

Jon’s chest is heaving, but no one’s looking. He clutches Tommy’s spare hand like a vise as he struggles to get his breath back, tipping forwards to press his forehead against Tommy’ shoulder, curled against him. Despite everything, it feels private, like there’s a bubble around them, keeping them safe. Tommy’s keeping them safe.

In the aftermath, like always, it’s suddenly more difficult to ignore his own need, how fucking turned on he is, but that’s not what this is about. And Tommy likes to wait.

Jon laughs out a breath, drops a kiss -- chaste, affectionate -- on Tommy’s shoulder. “God,” he says. “Every time, it’s like that.”

Tommy knows what he means. The rush, the intimacy -- honestly, sometimes he thinks that’s the best part of it, this semi-public thing: the trust it takes to put yourself in someone’s hands like that where anyone could see and know that they won’t let you down. “Yeah,” he says, and squeezes Jon’s thigh, tries to get the whole feeling across. 

God, that they get to have this. A house together, a company they built, Lovett waiting for them for a show in New York: the world they made, together. 

Jon lifts his head, shifting in his seat, wrinkling his nose self-deprecatingly. He comes kind of a lot so his underwear’s probably a write-off, but Tommy’s betting the sweats’ll make it out fine. Jon’s got spares with him anyway, and they haven’t checked their bags. Jon looks calmer now, his body relaxing. He nods at Tommy’s lap, where Tommy’s tried to surreptitiously tug some of the blanket over himself. “Uh,” he says. He’s smiling so wide that Tommy can see the gap in his teeth. “How’s the flight going for you? Something I can do to help?”

Everything around them is quiet. There’s a hotel bed waiting for them in New York. Jon is smiling again. Tommy can’t think of another single damn thing he could need.

“I’ll wait,” Tommy says, and settles closer against Jon’s side. He grins. “You can get me back when we land.”


End file.
